In The Rancher's Arms. Trish Milburn
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how many times they lubricated the hinges.
As she walked quietly into the living room, Lemondrop gave her a tentative look from where he was stretched out along the back of the couch. Evidently, he still remembered the reaction to her bad dream the day before. She breathed a sigh of relief when he didn’t bolt when she approached him.
“Sorry about scaring you, buddy,” she said as she ran her fingers through his soft yellow fur.
Lemondrop must have forgiven her because his distinctive purr started up and he rubbed his head against her palm. The pure rightness of the moment caused her to choke up and smile a little at the same time.
“Want some breakfast?” she whispered.
Lemondrop looked up at her as if he understood every single word she said. When he hopped to the floor and strode toward the kitchen, she shook her head before following in his wake. Sometimes that cat seemed half human.
As Arden moved about the kitchen, pulling out the supplies she needed to make pancakes, she found herself pausing to touch familiar items—the stoneware canisters that had been her grandmother’s, the framed paint handprint she’d made for her mom on some long-ago Mother’s Day, the top of the table around which her family had enjoyed countless meals. It was as if her mind was demanding she make contact with as many things as possible to be sure they were real and not simply part of the daydreams she’d used to get through her captivity. To prove she was actually here and not still in that sweltering cage.
Arden shook her head, trying to rid herself of the memories. She tried not to think about how long they might plague her, but she’d written about too many survivors of horrible experiences—bombings, genocide, natural disasters of epic proportions—to believe she’d be back to normal anytime soon. If ever.
“You’re up early.”
The sound of her father’s voice did more to ground her in the present, in her childhood home than anything else. She glanced over her shoulder after flipping her pancake.
“Still adjusting to the time difference.”
The way he looked at her said he knew there were other reasons for her already being at the stove, but he didn’t push her to admit that. Her dad had always been one willing to listen but only when the person was ready to talk. If not for his heart attack, maybe she would confide in him. But that wasn’t going to happen. She’d keep everything bottled up indefinitely rather than cause him any more pain or worry.
Her dad crossed to where she was standing and squeezed her shoulder in an affectionate, supportive gesture.
“Those look good,” he said, pointing at the pancakes.
“And Mom told me about your special diet, so you’ll be having oatmeal with blueberries and scrambled egg whites.”
He made a sound of frustration. “Two against one, not fair.”
She lifted onto her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. “Don’t worry. I make really good oatmeal and eggs.”
In truth, it was much more like what she’d normally eat, but weeks of gnawing hunger had her wanting every comfort food she could get her hands on. But even with her mouth watering at the impending consumption of pancakes, she had to remind herself to be careful. When she’d finally gotten a meal after her rescue, she’d made herself sick by eating too much.
Her dad uttered another grunt but dropped a kiss on her forehead. “What can I do?”
Arden nodded at the table. “Sit and catch me up on what’s new around here.” Some good old, dependable Blue Falls gossip should keep her mind off unwanted memories for a little bit at least.
“You mean besides me going stir-crazy around here and your mom hovering?”
“You scared her. She’s allowed to hover a little.”
He started to say something but stopped himself. A couple of ticks of the wall clock passed before she realized what he’d thought, that she was most likely in for some hovering by her mom, as well. Part of her wanted to curl up in her mother’s arms, but she didn’t know how she could spend a lot of time with her mom while the details of her captivity remained unspoken between them. Arden would be torn between answering all her mom’s questions and needing to protect her from the truth.
“I’ll go for your walk with you after we eat to give her a break.” She managed a smile. “And you.”
Plus despite his weakened state, Arden thought she might feel less anxious about leaving the house if her dad was beside her. Not to mention she could use the exercise to build up her own strength.
“That sounds like a good idea, dear,” her mom said as she entered the kitchen. “Fresh air will be good for you both.”
Arden wasn’t sure if her mom believed that or if it was just something people said when they were at a loss for anything else.
Her mom crossed the kitchen to where Arden was flipping pancakes onto plates. “I’ll finish up here, honey. You go sit with your father. You should have gotten me up if you were hungry.”
Arden refused to budge. “No, I’ve got it.” What she didn’t say was that after weeks of being cramped in a cage only about half as tall as she was, it felt good to stand to her full height, to be able to move freely. Even being buckled in her seat on the flights bringing her out of Uganda and eventually to the States had made her fidget and have to force herself to stay calm.
She noticed a look passing between her parents, one that revealed the deep concern they’d been trying to hide from her.
“I’m okay, really,” she said.
They probably didn’t believe her, but maybe if she said it enough they’d begin to. Even if she didn’t. In actuality, she felt about as far from okay as she could imagine. It was as if she’d been shaken so violently that all the pieces that made her who she was had been broken apart and resettled in the wrong configuration, making her someone entirely different.
Breakfast passed much as dinner had the night before, conversation flowing about things like who’d gotten married, who’d had kids, how there was a new pie flavor at the Primrose Café—caramel apple—that people were raving about. During one of the uncomfortable lapses in conversation, Arden’s mom placed her fork on her plate along with her half-eaten pancakes.
“That was delicious, but I don’t think I can eat another bite.”
Arden suspected it had less to do with her mom’s hunger being satiated and was more about her need to know what had happened to her daughter so that she could try to fix it, to make Arden better. But this wasn’t a bee sting or a scraped elbow that felt better with a little TLC from Mom. Some damage was so deep and so twisted that you just had to face it alone because no one who hadn’t been through it could possibly understand.
Her mom stood and started clearing the table. “Why don’t you two go outside and enjoy the spring air? I’ll clean up.”
“You feel up to a meander to the pond?” her dad asked.
Arden looked across the table, thought maybe her dad had a little more color in his cheeks today. Maybe seeing her alive and well, at least on the outside, had given him the same kind of bone-deep relief that she’d experienced when she’d seen him on the porch yesterday.
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
They took their time since there was no need to hurry. Plus, she didn’t want him to overtax himself. And despite several days of regular food, water and a bed to sleep in, she still felt shaky and weak. If it wasn’t for the nightmares, she wished she could sleep for about a month.
Arden wrapped her arm around her dad’s as they walked.
“This is nice,” her dad said.
“It is.” Even so, she hated the awkwardness between them. She’d always been close with her dad, but now it felt as if even that